LIFE ISN’T A TOPIC, IT’S AN URGENCY WITH PITSTOPS
Life isn’t a topic, it’s an urgency with pitstops
and beatific interludes of relief along the way
that pass for peace. Is there necessity in what you say?
Is it agitated like a spider in the morning
vibrating in its web, a pulsar in a mandala
of guitar strings, a safety net of spinal cords
resonating with true north, a magnetic pole
changing its spin, butterflies witching for wavelengths
well beyond the range of their rabbit ears
as they make slight adjustments to their antennae?
I knew a painter once who was 37% mad,
who chained his spontaneity like a guest to a bed
and planned to be inspired by the blueprint
of the starmap of fireflies he carried in his head
whenever he was off his daily agenda of meds.
Sensitive stuff, but I told him anyway,
if it bears repeating, your silence isn’t original enough.
Who needs to be immortal while they’re alive?
It’s like a ghost trying to haunt a house of life
before the tenet in residence has moved out of it
into a tenured coffin of his own. And I don’t care
how much polish gets rubbed like starlight
into the spurs and badges of the drugstore outlaws
riding shotgun on the golden hearse of the sun,
it’s still just a strongbox of money spiders
when you shoot the lock off of it like the nose ring
of a white winged horse saddled by a green horn
that gets bucked off his own thermals like a burr
trying to break into a circle of milkwagons
to protect the butter urns from savages in blue war bonnets
in an ambush of peacocks with empty magazines.
Not everyone likes the taste of fraudulent margarine,
furniture wax, shoe polish, bear grease or axle oil.
Having their eyelashes cleaned off with turpentine
to keep the flies out of the ointment, the colours pure.
As if light had joined the Taliban and held a grudge
against your eyes. Aniconic palettes. Black. Black. Black.
No foreseeable rainbows on the wings of aspiring maggots.
Nothing but these false dawns and sunsets that taste
like the must of old men smudging their pearls of wisdom
like opalescent cataracts nacreously waning
like the love lyrics of a decresent moon
to the younger undertakers bedding their bones,
pearl divers closing the mouths of the oysters
they’ve shucked like books and lavish satin coffins
as if every cloud had a silver lining that mistook
its perfect binding for a vision of life without salt or sand.
Everyone gratified if their point of view, for their eyes only,
like the colour blue without irises, or a flowerless green,
were reflected by windows into the souls of the fanatically bland.